


Perfect Stranger

by victorine



Category: Ella Enchanted (2004), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Valhalla Rising
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Char makes bad decisions but it works out somehow, First Kiss, Hand Kink, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, One Eye is called Frank, Strangers to Lovers, Valhalla Enchanted, drunk Char, mostly because Frank is a sweetheart, random dubious references to fairytales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: Char doesn't know Frank. Frank doesn't know Char. So how the hell did they wind up hugging in the middle of a park at midnight on Valentine's Day? And what will Char do when he realises it's not actually his best friend Ella rubbing soothing circles into his back?All will be revealed...





	Perfect Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FannibalFest Toronto's ThreeOfSwords Valentine's Fest!
> 
> Based on this prompt from [OTP Prompts](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com) over on tumblr:
> 
> "Person A is super sad and it’s super late so they call up their best friend to tell them to meet person A in the park. When person A hears a car pull up, they automatically assume that it’s their best friend, but in reality ENTER PERSON B. Now person B is being tackled in the dark out of nowhere with some random stranger crying into their chest about their latest existential crisis. What happens next is up to u my friend."

_Message recorded at 11.41 pm.  
_

_Ella, for god’s sake, where are you? I’ve been messaging you for three bloody hours with no reply! I need to talk to you right now. Edgar – god, you won’t fucking believe the nonsense he’s up to now, I really think he’s lost it this time. You always know how I should handle him, just… look, I’m going to go wait in the park, you know where. Come and meet me when you can, please?_

 

* * *

 

Char is drunk. Even by his own fairly high standards, developed during the never-ending galas and black-tie events his family forces him to attend, he is completely hammered. He started on the vodka sometime during the afternoon, after yet another disastrous audience with his snake of an uncle. Then, on his way to the park, he polished off an entire bottle of excellent champagne that he swiped from Edgar’s collection, and he is now halfway through the second, huddled on the steps of the bandstand and attempting not to hiccup. He is also muttering to himself, a continuous stream of angry whispers that occasionally develop into full-on drunken yelling (complete with effusive hand gestures).

It is not, he would have to admit himself, his best look.

That’s hardly important, though. It’s only Ella who’s going to see, given the cover of darkness in the deserted park, and they figured out years ago that their relationship was definitely more of the brother-and-sister variety. So he ignores his sloppy clothing (as sloppy as a bespoke suit can be, anyway, tie askew and tails untucked) and dishevelled curls, wraps his coat tighter around himself, and waits. And drinks. And, every few minutes, curses.

He’s not really sure how long he waits for Ella to turn up – time has taken on that slightly fluid quality that comes from drinking too much, too quickly – but finally he hears a car pull up nearby. It’s too far to see in detail, even under the car park’s bright lights, but it definitely looks like Ella’s bright orange SUV – _The Pumpkin_ , as she insists on calling it – and who else would be parking here in the dead of night? Who else, for that matter, would drive a car that closely resembles a squash? To Char’s currently-addled brain, this spurious reasoning means that it _must_ be her, and he wanders unsteadily towards the car as a figure emerges from it, and promptly flings himself into their arms.

“You’ve got those stupid heels on again, haven’t you? The ones that make you tower over me, I know you enjoy doing that, don’t pretend,” he slurs, the words running together. He feels Ella stiffen and start to pull away, but he could do with the support – standing is somewhat challenging at the moment – and besides it’s nice to be held, nobody ever seems to want to at home. Not very into displays of affection, his family. So he tightens his arms around her and pleads, “Could we just stay like this for a bit, feeling a bit fragile, you know?”

Ella says nothing in response but Char feels her relax, and her arms go up around him, pulling him in close. It occurs to Char that she feels a bit different than usual – her chest in particular seems to be less… forgiving than he remembers? But he chalks it up to a particularly sturdy bra and snuggles in.

“You warned me about this, you know, him trying to replace me. How stupid must I be to have thought he wouldn’t do that to his own nephew? He doesn’t love me, I mean, obviously but…” Char snorts, embarrassingly sloppy. “Stupid. As if family means anything anyway.”

At his back, he feels gentle, soothing circles being rubbed into his skin. It’s… nice. Ella has surprisingly strong hands and they’re applying just the right amount of pressure to draw all (well, most) of the tension from Char’s body. He registers vaguely that she hasn’t said anything but figures that she’s letting him get it all out of his system, so he continues to vent: his worries about the future, about disappointing the memory of his dad, about whether he’s really the person to lead the company anyway.

And all the time, he’s noticing things about the body holding him that he’s never noticed before. Like the heat emanating from it, soaking into Char’s chilled flesh even through his clothing. Or the scent, of sun-baked leather and spruce, nothing like Ella’s usual floral perfume, and making Char yearn to bury his nose in her neck and breath deep. Maybe flick out his tongue and taste…

Oh shit. That is not a thought he should be having about Ella. That isn’t a thought he ever _wants_ to have about Ella. Char has a moment of massively uncomfortable mental dissonance, caught between his usual brotherly feelings towards Ella and the arousal that has crept up on him during their embrace. Then he realises he is, horrifyingly, hardening a little against her thigh (and might well have been hardening _a lot_ if not for the alcohol in his system) and pulls back, looking wildly into the eyes of…

The _eye_ of…

Not Ella. Very definitely not Ella. Nor anybody else Char knows for that matter.

The first thing that strikes him – and Char thinks it would be the first thing to strike anybody, frankly – is the ruined, ragged mess of the stranger’s eye. Of where his eye should be, anyway. Char stares, and can’t help a little shudder as he realises that someone had clearly removed the man’s eyeball, in a way that surely involved a great deal of pain, given the brutal look of the flesh left behind.

In fact there are scars crisscrossing the whole of the man’s face, and down to his throat too, but nothing quite like the eerie ridges of skin protruding from his mangled socket. It hurts to look at – god only knows how it felt – and yet Char can’t look away, horribly mesmerised until he realises he is staring and feels a flush of embarrassment, a whiplash twist of emotion that jolts him out of his fascination.

His brain finally catching up with the rest of him, Char gathers his wits enough to yell, “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!”

The stranger doesn’t look shocked or scared by this response, merely holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. It doesn’t do much to calm Char’s own panic.

“What,” he repeats, “the fuck were you doing? Who lets a perfect stranger hug them and doesn’t say a bloody word? What kind of pervert are you?”

The man does raise an eyebrow at this last accusation, and Char tenses in anticipation of a fight. Or worse. But all he does is move one hand to his throat and pat at it a couple of times, then shakes his head, with what can only be described as a beseeching look on his face. It takes Char a moment to understand.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” An instinctive apology is on the tip of Char’s tongue, but he bites it back. “There are other ways you could have gotten my attention, it’s still not ok.”

The man looks shamefaced, and Char’s heart seems to clench a little in response. Which is ridiculous, he tells himself. This bloke is probably nothing more than a creep. Except that doesn’t quite explain why, instead of running in the opposite direction, or possibly taking a swing at him, Char just watches as the stranger removes his hand from his throat and, with the same hopeful expression, makes a few gestures in the air in front of him.

And it certainly doesn’t explain why Char finds himself mesmerised by those hands and the elegant way they move. They are, as he had felt, large and strong, but also surprisingly graceful, with long fingers and veins that stand in sharp relief against his skin. Musician’s hands, perhaps, or some kind of skilled craftsman – something that requires great dexterity and precision, Char imagines. He can’t help but wonder if they would be soft, or perhaps bear callouses from whatever work they engage in.

The spell Char has been under dies away as the man drops them to his sides again, looking once more disheartened. Still, it takes him a moment to realise that the gestures had in fact been sign language. Well, also he is still really drunk.

“I don’t… sorry, I don’t understand signing. Other than,” he holds out his fist and shakes it up and down a couple of times. “But I think everyone knows that one.”

The stranger smiles at this, wide and bright and… oh. Oh dear. Char’s in trouble. Because that smile is beautiful, lighting up the man’s face in a way that doesn’t hide the scars – nothing short of a mask could do that – but instead seems to soften and shade them. Which means that his handsome features are suddenly highlighted, strong cheekbones and fine jawline and pleasingly bowed mouth that curls at the corners and would undoubtedly fit beautifully against Char’s own…

And looking away from his face, which Char does now in a desperate attempt to curtail these thoughts, doesn’t help at all. Instead he is confronted by a set of long, long legs clad in drainpipe jeans turned up over beat-up Doc Martens. Above them, a white t-shirt – featuring, for some reason, a picture of a cartoon mouse with a red nose and an eyepatch – clings pleasingly tight to a slim torso, while a black greatcoat hangs from broad, powerful shoulders. From there, Char’s gaze helplessly rises once again to that smile, now with something a little amused in it that Char has no choice but to respond to, feeling his own mouth quirk coyly.

Perhaps not a musician, but a dancer, Char muses. The way the man’s fine hair is pulled back into a loose bun puts him in mind of ballerinas, some sections loosened and falling forward, as if he has just come from a workout. The thought of this strange, strangely beautiful man stretching and sweating in skintight lycra brings heat to Char’s face that he has no doubt is causing him to flush deeply. He’s always hated how easily he blushes.

Char’s so distracted by the unexpected trajectory of his thoughts, that he misses the stranger reaching into his pocket for his phone, and tapping at his screen. It’s only when he holds the phone up so Char can see its display that Char realises he’s trying once again to communicate with him – a short message has been typed in for him to read.

_I apologise for scaring you, it was not my intention. Selfishly I found I couldn’t refuse your request to be held. You seemed to need someone to care for you tonight and I was in the happy position to do so. Please forgive me for overstepping my bounds._

Char reads the message three times, trying to reconcile the grungy-looking guy in front of him with the refined, old-fashioned wording. The man sounds like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel, what is Char meant to do with that?

The answer, apparently, is to look up into the stranger’s patient, warm expression, and plant a kiss directly on his mouth.

It will not, truth be owned, go down in the history books as one of the world’s great first kisses. Char is still too drunk to aim properly, not to mention a little sloppy, and the stranger is too taken aback to do much in response. Char gives it a minute, but eventually has to give it up as a lost cause, and pulls back, avoiding the man’s eyes for a very different reason this time.

“Sorry, I’m… yeah, that was probably a bad-”

The words are lost between them as the stranger hauls Char back against him for another kiss, this one precisely on target. Char moans and slings his arms around the man’s shoulders, the kiss quickly deepening as they lick into each other’s mouths and their hands begin to explore with a rush of urgency. Soon Char feels dizzy from lack of oxygen, which only gets worse when the stranger slots a thigh neatly between Char’s legs and actually lifts him a little so to be better positioned to grind against it. Char isn’t entirely sure he can blame the alcohol for the enthusiasm with which he does so.

Some small part of his hindbrain, though, is aware that he is doing all this in a very public place, with a complete stranger. A gorgeous, kind, incredibly sexy stranger, sure, but Char really prefers to know a person’s name before coming all over them. And since that is suddenly an embarrassingly distinct possibility, he reluctantly pulls himself away from his stranger’s mouth.

In fact, he pulls so hard, so suddenly, that he goes reeling backwards, very nearly ending up flat on his arse, while his impromptu make out partner slams back into his car door. Very possibly leaving a dent, if Char’s assessment of the firmness of his backside was accurate.

“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry!” Char cries, noting the stunned expression on… Fuck it, first things first. “Look, I can’t keep referring to you as ‘the stranger’ in my head, I sound like something out of a bad movie. And, well, I’m usually more of a names first, hump later kind of bloke. Not that I make a habit of humping people I just met, I…” He trails off in mortified defeat. “Have mercy on a drunken idiot and give me your name?” he mumbles weakly.

There is silence for several moments, during which Char can’t bring himself to look at ( _sigh_ ) the stranger for fear of combusting from humiliation. Maybe he’ll just leave, just get in his car and drive off, leaving Char to hopefully turn into a frog and live out his days in the park’s pond, never to make a complete berk of himself ever again.

Then he feels a hand taking his, gentle, strong and – yes – a little calloused, and he finds that his eyes are closed and he’s holding his breath. His hand is carefully unfolded and turned palm up, and then he can’t hold in a gasp as a shape is traced into his flesh. He’s not sure what it is, until he feels it a second time, slower and more deliberate.

“F?” he asks, opening his eyes to find his stranger nodding at him with a patient, soft expression. He takes a moment to let their shared gaze linger before placing his finger against Char’s palm again, drawing out a little shiver of pleasure as he makes contact. He traces three more shapes, each another letter: R-A-N.

Fran? He doesn’t look like a Fran, but then Char – _Charmont_ , for heaven’s sake – is hardly one to judge a book by its title. He goes to speak his stranger’s name for the first time, but before he can, the man bends over Char’s hand and places a kiss directly in the centre before folding Char’s fingers over the spot, as if it is a precious gift to be treasured. Char supposes it is.

Then the double significance hits him: _k is for kiss._

Not Fran, but…

“Frank?” Char blurts out, utterly failing to live up to his own name and yet receiving a smile so bright he suddenly feels like the most charming – and lucky – man on the planet. He steps back in with every intention of finishing what they started, but Frank – _Frank_ – stops him with a hand to his chest and a raised eyebrow.

“What’s the m- oh!” Char swears he’s going to stop being a flustered airhead any second now. “Sorry, I’m… it’s Char. My name.”

Frank mouths it back to him, and Char thinks there’s a definite possibility he’s going to forget how to breathe at the way his lips move as they make the shape. And then Frank’s hand curls into his shirt and pulls him forward into another kiss, and Char not only forgets to breathe, but also his name, English, and any possibility of letting this man out of his sight for the foreseeable future.

He definitely forgets to listen out for the sound of another car arriving, or of someone getting out and marching over to them, or even of his name being repeatedly called, and then yelled at him. In fact it’s Frank who eventually has to separate them, pointing over Char’s shoulder with a mixture of concern and amusement. Char can’t imagine what’s worth taking a break from kissing him, but dutifully turns to find a similarly conflicted expression on Ella’s face – though hers is definitely leaning more towards _pissed off_ than concerned.

“Oh, ah… hello, Ella,” he stammers out, aware of exactly the picture he and Frank must be making right now, all kiss-swollen lips and messy hair. He sincerely hopes that it’s at least dark enough to hide the bulge in his trousers.

“Fifteen messages. _Fifteen_ , Char, and a voicemail that couldn’t have sounded more miserable if you’d just found out someone had stolen your entire collection of leather pants.” Ella has her hands on her hips and her voice has taken on a high-pitched quality, both of which are signs that Char will quite probably not make it out of the park with his manhood intact. “Of course I left my none-too-happy girlfriend in bed to drive all the way across town to find you, which, given that it’s Valentine’s Day was really not-”

“Wait, it’s Valentine’s Day?”

“Char, oh my god, did he suck out your brain along with your tonsils? Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day and I should be at home with Areida getting lucky, not watching my best friend engage in a _goddamn public sex act_ with a total stranger! I know Valentine’s can be lonely, Char, but did you have to drag me into your terrible coping mechanisms?!”

Char really hates it when Ella yells at him. And this isn’t going to be the easiest thing to explain. Really, Char isn’t sure himself how this happened, how he wound up giving his heart (and very nearly an orgasm) to a stranger before he even knew his name. He certainly has no idea what he’s going to tell Ella – or his family, god, they will not approve of Frank (which is a little bit wonderful, actually) – without coming across as a lunatic.

But Char feels Frank step in close behind him, a column of strength to lean into. He feels Frank’s hand, warm and reassuring on the small of his back, and he knows, despite having known the man for barely the space of an hour, he knows this man can be everything he needs. He only hopes he can be the same for Frank.

He takes a deep breath and makes a start. “Look, I didn’t do this because I’m lonely, or because I needed to get my rocks off. I kissed Frank because he’s sweet and kind, and, ok yes, fucking gorgeous, and in my defence, I initially thought he was you…”

“You _what_?!”

“Wait I… ok, I admit that sounded bad. Let me start over. Firstly, it’s important to note that I was really, very extremely, bordering on irresponsibly, wankered…”

Ella is giggling by the time he’s describing his rubbish first attempt at a kiss, and when she visibly melts at the description of Frank kissing his palm, Char knows things are going to be fine with her. And suddenly he realises he’s standing with his smiling best friend, wrapped tight in the arms of a man he could see himself truly falling for, and Char can’t remember a better Valentine’s Day in his whole life. At this rate, he might even avoid a hangover, he’s so full of happiness.

He doesn’t, because bodies sadly don’t work that way, and wakes up with a wicked headache but without any regret for kissing Frank (in fact, he has a burning desire to do it again as soon as possible and frantically double checks that his number hasn’t somehow deleted itself from his phone). First though, he drags himself out of bed to pursue an even more important priority: find and sign up for sign language classes.

And it’s just as well he does, because it’s only a few weeks later that he needs to pull the teacher aside, to ask a very important question before Frank comes to pick him up from class: how to make the sign for _I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Char forgetting about Valentine's Day is a result of your space-cadet of an author forgetting until the last minute that the fic was supposed to reference V-day, so if it seems tacked on... it totally was xD.
> 
> Also, yes, Frank is wearing a Danger Mouse t-shirt. Why? Because the author is not only an airhead, but a born-in-the-80s, self-indulgent type too...


End file.
